He was at the moment buttering a delicious French roll and she
was daintily pouring tea from an old family heirloom. The
contrast between this and the dust and the grease of a midday
meal at the end of a "chuck wagon" lent accent to his smiling
lamentation.

"A lot of sheepherding you do," she derided.

"A shepherd has to look after his sheep, y'u know."

"You herd sheep just about as much as I punch cows."

"I have to herd my herders, anyhow, and that keeps me on the
move."

"I'm glad there isn't going to be any more trouble between you
and the Lazy D. And that reminds me of another thing. I've often
wonered who those men could have been that attacked you the day
you were hurt."

She had asked the question almost carelessly, without any thought
that this might be something he wished to conceal, but she
recognized her mistake by the wariness that filmed his eyes
instantly.

"Room there for a right interesting guessing contest," he
replied.

"You wouldn't need to guess," she charged, on swift impulse.